Not Dead Yet

93

‘Okay, everyone, clear the doubles, please, the cast are coming on set.’ The voice came out of the baby monitor, loud and clear for some moments, then distorted by a feedback squawk.

Perched up at the top of the dome’s wooden frame, watching and listening, Drayton Wheeler began trembling with nerves and excitement. Now! Now! Have to do it now! He was never going to know for sure exactly when the cast would all be assembled around the table. He was going to have to rely on a calculated judgement – and luck. But this moment now was, in his view, the best shot he was likely to get.

He picked up the San Pellegrino bottle, his hands shaking so much he was scared of slopping some of the mercuric chloride acid on himself. Pointing it away, he unscrewed the metal cap, and it slipped from his fingers. He could hear it tumble all the way down the wooden slats, rat-a-tat-tatting, then as it struck something metallic, a loud ping.

He held his breath. Listened. Static came through the baby monitor. Then Larry Brooker’s voice, talking to the director. ‘We gotta make some time up. We’ve lost two hours thanks to that asshole.’

‘We can work on, Larry, keep everyone late,’ Jack Jordan said. He had a soft and precious voice that Drayton Wheeler found particularly irritating.

‘Don’t go there.’ Brooker was thinking about the budget and the overtime rates for some of the crew if they went over the maximum number of hours, Wheeler guessed. ‘You’ll just have to take some shortcuts,’ Brooker commanded.

‘Darling boy, this is not the scene to take shortcuts on.’

Wheeler could hear the disdain in the director’s voice, and thought, Don’t have a fucking argument, not now!

Another voice said, ‘Are we ready to fill the table?’

‘I want to see if Judd’s compos mentis enough to film before I bring everyone else in,’ Jordan said.

‘He’s fine,’ Brooker said. ‘I just spoke to him. He’s gonna be a pussycat tonight.’

‘He’s just leaving his trailer now,’ one of the Assistant Directors announced.

Wheeler listened to the words. Then very carefully, holding his breath, he tipped the entire contents of the San Pellegrino bottle on to the towel which he had wound around the single aluminium support shaft for the chandelier.

Instantly a wisp of smoke rose from the towel as it began to discolour into brown and grey blotches. Some of the acid ran further down the shaft. He continued to hold his breath, partly to avoid inhaling any of the fumes the acid released, and partly out of terror that it might drip down on to the table, way below, and get noticed.

More curls of smoke were rising. He moved down several slats, until he was below the level of the acid, then checked his watch. 7.04 p.m. If his calculations were right, at around 7.35 p.m. the acid would have eaten through enough of the shaft for the chandelier to plunge.

Through the monitor he heard the conversation between Larry Brooker and Jack Jordan continuing.

‘I’m telling you, darling boy, I cannot possibly shoot tonight if he’s wrecked.’

‘He’s fine, Jesus, I just spoke with him!’

‘You said that he was fine last night. He couldn’t remember his lines for more than ten seconds. You know who this is going to reflect on? I don’t work this way, Larry. I just can’t connect with him. Do you understand?’

‘He’ll be fine. Good as gold.’

‘He was complaining to me yesterday that Gaia was chewing raw garlic before their kissing scene. I think I should go and talk to him off set, before everyone else arrives.’

Shit, shit, shit, Wheeler thought. Just get the jerk on set. And everyone else!

He watched Jordan walk out of the room. One of the Assistant Directors said into his microphone, ‘Hold all cast.’

No! Wheeler urged, silently. Bring them on, bring them on, get them into position!

Suddenly he saw a small boy, with mussed-up brown hair, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, walk into the room, duck under the ropes and walk towards the table. Gaia’s little brat, he recognized from earlier.

Fuck off kid! Get out of here! Clear off, you little bastard!

The boy wandered, curious, around the table. He peered, nosily, at the hams, chickens, haunches of venison, suckling pig, silver flagons of ales and wines, and bowls of fruits. Then he pulled up a chair at the table, sat down, and stared around him, with a regal air, as if imagining himself back in time.

Clear off, kid!

He looked just like his own son.

Suddenly there was a strange sound directly above him. A sharp hissing. He looked up, and to his shock, the entire interior of the dome above him had disappeared in a swirling mist of acrid smoke. He could feel it burning his lungs, parching his mouth.

Sudden panic gripped him.

There was a piercing, creaking sound.

He looked down for an instant, and the chandelier was trembling.

No, no, no.

His careful calculations had come out at thirty minutes. What had he got wrong?

It was shaking even more now, and the creaking was getting worse.

The damned boy was still sitting there, lifting a silver goblet as if pretending to drink from it.

He coughed, the acid fumes burning his eyes and searing his throat. Half blinded, tears were streaming from his eyes. He coughed again, a long, deep, choking, hacking cough. Get lost, kid! Scram!

His goddamn calculations were wrong. Had he screwed up on the acid strength? The calculations of the diameter of the aluminium?

There was a terrible screech of stressed metal, right below him. He looked down and to his horror could see the whole chandelier had moved, several inches, and was now off-kilter.

The shaft was about to snap.

The whole chandelier, as he had planned, was about to fall. But on to Roan Lafayette.

No.

‘Kid!’ he yelled. ‘Get away! Get away! GET AWAY!’

But no one could hear him from up here.

The boy continued to play happily with his goblet.

Of course he could not hear him from up here.

There was another piercing metallic shriek.

Through his observation hole, he could see the chandelier was swaying now. Any moment it would plunge down. No one had noticed. It was going to kill the kid and that was never his intention.

Oh shit, shit, shit, shit.

This was screwing up all his plans. He launched himself down the rest of the wooden slats, knocking over and then accidentally treading on and splintering the baby alarm speaker, squeezed back out through the narrow hatch, and then clambered down the ladder.

He felt surprisingly energized and clear-headed.

I am not killing a child. I am not killing a child.

He sprinted along the steel walkway, ignoring the handrail this time, then clambered in through the hatch to the apartment beneath the big dome. He ran through the main room, past the dust sheets, over the trapdoor secured by the two bolts, then down the spiral staircase, keeping well clear of the rickety handrail. Then he burst out through the door at the bottom, into the central hallway.

Two security guards standing there looked at him in astonishment.

As Wheeler ignored them and sprinted down the corridor towards the Banqueting Room, the guards ran after him. ‘Hey! Hey, you!’ one shouted. ‘Let me see your ID!’

Three grips, unwinding a cable drum, were blocking the entrance to the room. One guard caught up with Wheeler as he tried to barge past them, and grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Hey!’

Drayton Wheeler turned and punched him in the nose so hard he bust it, sending the guard reeling back, and at the same time agonizingly dislocating his own thumb. But he barely even noticed. He ran on into the Banqueting Room and looked up.

The chandelier was swaying as if suspended by a solitary, fraying piece of string.

At any second it was going to come down.

The stupid kid, in a world of his own, was now pretending to eat with a knife and fork. The rest of the crew in here were well clear of the table.

Wheeler clambered over the rope.

‘Hey!’ The other security guard shouted at him.

Wheeler ignored him. Ignored everything but the kid at the table and the looming, swaying shadow above him. He threw himself across the room and grabbed the boy, yanking him clean out of his chair by his arm, his knife and fork clattering to the ground.

‘Hey!!’ Roan shouted, furious and bewildered, moments before Drayton Wheeler, gripping him by the shoulder and buttocks, threw him, with all the force he could muster, across the polished wooden floor, sliding and spinning like a human curling stone.

Roan shrieked in protest as he crashed into a brass upright supporting the rope.

Then, before Drayton Wheeler had a chance to move, the chandelier dropped.

He sensed, fleetingly, the shadow, descending on him, enveloping him, far too fast for him to cry out. The full force of the chandelier struck him on the head, smashing him to the floor a split second before it demolished an eight-foot-long portion of the centre of the table.

The floor shook under the massive, splintering crash, as if a bomb had gone off in the room. There was a jangling, reverberating boom. Hundreds of the 15,000 glass drops shattered, sending a glittering, shimmering display of coloured light into the air, for an instant, like a firework. Lights in the grand room flickered. Goblets on the table crashed over, shattering, spilling their contents; plates, chandeliers and tureens slid down into the tangled mess of chains, gilded metal framework and glass. Then there was a gentle, almost absurd tinkling sound. As if someone had just dropped one single glass. That was all and nothing else.

It was followed by a brief instant of absolute silence. No one moved.

Then a male voice cried out in shock, ‘Oh shit, oh no!’

A female voice screamed, ‘There’s a man under there! Oh my God, there’s someone under there!’

There was another moment of stunned, awed silence. It was broken by a hideous, whooping, hysterical screaming from the film unit’s continuity woman. Bug-eyed, she was standing, pointing at a dark red pool of blood spreading out from under the mangled wreckage where the centre of the table had been only moments ago.

A single streak of stark white light flitted across the scene. Someone had taken a photograph.